


The Bodyguard

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bad Writing, Gen, HYDRA Husbands, Humor, Implied Brock/Steve but only in Brock's imagination, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pseudonyms, Romance Novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: “You don’t have a backup plan?” Jack’s earnest, and he so clearly does have one. Brock doesn’t really want to know what it might be (especially if it involves him), so he shrugs and mutters “ride or die, babe” and carries on typing.(Everyone's got to have a fallback scheme, and Rumlow's might just be to get published)(any resemblance to persons living, dead or frozen in polar ice for 70 years is purely coincidental)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineswrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/gifts), [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> Credit goes to ineswrites and kalika for the protagonist's - sorry, love interest's - name (originally a possible portmanteau for Cap/Rollins) and the concept of Brock's terrible, awful attempt at an OC.

“When Insight goes up, then we’ll….”

“If Insight goes up.”

“Fuck you,  _ if _ .” Brock drains his beer, flips the bottle around and points it at Jack before setting it down. “ _ When _ .”

“You don’t have a backup plan?” Jack’s earnest, and he so clearly  _ does _ have one. Brock doesn’t really want to know what it might be (especially if it involves him), so he shrugs and mutters “ride or die, babe” and carries on typing.

Jack’s still looking at him, so he plants his hands on the sides of the laptop and says “ _ What _ ?”

“Nothing.” Jack purses his lips, irritatingly. “I guess I just can’t believe you’ve put all your eggs in one basket. It’s not your style.  _ Babe _ .”

“Yeah, well maybe…” Brock has escape plans, sure - but nothing that’ll set him up for life. At least, not as far as Jack knows. “Fuck off and let me concentrate on this… thing.”

In retrospect, Jack is kicking himself that he didn’t spot it sooner. He was just too focused on work, and on keeping what they had going, and he straight-up ignored some of the signs. They were all there, though. The secrecy; the clearing of the browser history. The cursing and scrapping whenever Jack got to the mailbox first, or made a move towards the computer. The guilty glances whenever anyone might look over his shoulder at work. The long evenings on the couch, waiting for Brock to finish staying late at the office. The jolt awake at 3am and the glaring screen of the phone and the “s’ok babe, lemme just write this down”.

Of course, he slipped up eventually. Everyone does: Al Capone got busted for tax evasion or avoidance, or whatever. Brock is careful but he’s not careful enough (that’s Jack’s job, if he’s honest). And that’s a plain fact.

Jack presses his mouth into a line, because otherwise he won’t be able to stop the hysterics. He has a reputation to protect. None of these sad bastards have ever really heard him laugh - some of them have never seen him smile. And deep down he feels sorry for Brock, now it’s all come out. This will be the worst part; the sting of the bandage ripped off. The wound will air and soothe, in time, but not yet. Not for a while yet.

“Chapter 3,” Pierce says, quiet and statesmanlike, adjusting his glasses. He could do audiobooks, really, with that voice. He brings a certain gravitas to whatever he’s saying, even if it’s “the pool party.”

Jack bites down so hard on his own tongue that he tastes blood.


	2. The Pool Party

“In this chapter,” Pierce continues, “to give you ladies and gentlemen a summary; our protagonist hosts a party at his enormous mansion, during which an assassination attempt is made. And our love interest - _Brooke_ \- manages to subdue the assailant, tackling him or her into an outdoor swimming pool. Naturally, she emerges from this confrontation completely drenched, to which Mr - what was that, Agent Rumlow?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“No, do go on - I’d hate to make presumptions, invoke death of the author.”

“I just - it’s - Brooke is the protagonist. The other guy’s the love interest.”

“The other guy?!” Maximoff crows. “Brooke’s a girl!”

“Shut up,” Rumlow snaps at her, and he’s still enough of a menace to make her back down, snorting into her sleeve.

“I think we’re using ‘guy’ in the common sense,” Rogers says generously, “as in the other character.”

It sobers Jack a little; knowing that the Captain is still so honourable even when everyone is just _begging_ him to take the piss. Jack knows he can be sassy, and wishes he’d get it out in front of the top brass. Just for once. (And yes, Jack is also hoping that they’d smack him down for it, to teach him not to run his fucking mouth so much; but that’s Jack’s problem.)

“Exactly,” Brock spits, vindicated.

“Anyway,” Pierce clears his throat, “faced with the vision of beauty that is Brooke in her wet clothes, Mr Caproll appears to lose all capacity for coherent thought. _The tac pants clinging to her curves, her solid thighs like vacuum-packed frankfurters… she flicked her hair back off her forehead with her hand, so he could see drops of water running down her chiselled features,_ ” Jack frowns at that, knowing the gesture like his own reflection, “ _and onto her neck, and he wanted to lick them off slowly, staring with his soft blue eyes into her deep brown the whole time he was doing it.._ Now, don’t ask me how he’s meant to have his face on her neck and also be looking into her eyes at the same time….”

The tendons in Brock’s own neck are highly visible. “It’s a draft,” he mutters at the carpet.

Fury has a small coughing fit.

“Regardless, with a decent editor…” and Jack is sure that Pierce looks right at him, but it’s momentary. “Now, as you’ll recall, there’s nothing much between them at this stage, and Brooke has told her friends-slash-colleagues… Natasha, and Jared…” Romanov’s lips thin and Stinson straightens his spine like he’s been shocked, “that she doesn’t hold any interest in her employer. But, from this scene, it’s fairly clear that our tall and masculine Stack feels something for her - maybe lust, maybe love, maybe something in between - and the sight of her climbing out of his swimming pool with, to quote, _her tits shrink-wrapped by her shirt and the water flowing off her like it had someplace else to be_ , does a lot to convince him to pursue her.”

“The guy’s name,” Hill says slowly, like she’s just putting it together, “is _Stack_ _Caproll_?”

Jack watches Rogers’ face very closely, because Rogers hasn’t been exposed to this fact yet. It’s a picture. He doesn’t know who to look at, and he doesn’t want to look at Jack, and or Brock, or his superiors, but looking at the floor would mean backing down. He stares fixedly out of the window at the glittering river. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Jack can’t help but smirk, just a little.

“God,” Romanov drawls, “I hope it’s a work in progress.”

Brock hovers on the edge of telling her to shut the fuck up, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t dare. They just glare at each other.

“Chapter four,” Pierce announces, and Rogers closes his eyes silently.


	3. The Night Watch

“Now, in this chapter - where, if you’ll remember, Brooke has been called upon to guard her employer while he sleeps - our characters finally realise the desires that have been plaguing their every waking moment until this point. Ms Maximoff - Ms Maximoff….”

“Wanda!” Fury says sharply.

“First of all, this may not be suitable for you - and secondly, would you have the grace to sit on the couch, instead of on the floor?”

Wanda finally stops laughing, and wipes the tears from her eyes. Romanov offers her a hand to help her up.

“I’m sorry,” she says, insincerely. “I’m sure I’m mature enough.”

“Good,” Pierce says with a nod, and replaces his glasses. “ _ From the moment she saw him peel off his shirt like a sexy banana, Brooke knew he was the guy for her. She’d never look at anyone else in the same way again. He was perfect. His shoulders were wide and manly, and his pecs to die for: she wanted to bite them. He had abs you could wash your shirts on, a tiny little waist, and his low-cut jeans showed off the perfect V of his hipbones. She nearly said ‘I want to fuck you’ right there and then, but this was her boss, gazing at her with those soft blue eyes and running a hand through his short sandy hair like he was embarrassed that she was looking. She bit her lip and didn’t say anything, even though her panties were on fire. _ ”

“Um,” Stinson starts, “is anyone else seeing the similarity to-.”

“Yes,” Jack says loudly, cutting him off. Brock looks somewhat relieved. “Sorry, Mr Secretary. Do continue.” Because he’s an asshole at heart, and he wants to see his commander squirm. Brock will take it out on him later. He’s fine with that.

“ _ Stack was thinking the same thing. He took off his pants, sexily, and walked over to her. His dick moved hypnotically in his shorts. ‘Brooke’, he said, ‘I’ve never wanted anybody as much as you. You make me hot every time I think about you, and the number of times I jerked off in the shower and said your name…’ _ .”

“Too much information,” Maximoff mutters, leaning her face on her hand and giggling into it.

“ _ Brooke didn’t blush, because she was way too tough for that. She stared at his enormous manhood bulging in his underwear, and said ‘Me too. I think I love you, or whatever. I always said I’d never love anybody because of my job, being a badass… but you  _ are  _ my job….’ ‘So do it’, he said, and kissed her. _ ”

“Ok, that’s kind of clever,” Hill admits. “I’m your job, so do me - yeah.”

“Then you’ll love what comes next.” Pierce flips the page. “ _ It was hot, with tons of tongue. She melted against his rock-hard body and backed him up against the bed to kiss him some more. He had pouty lips which she longed to bite. She took off her shirt and pushed him down on the sheets. He held her tits, her perky nipples standing upright…. _ Alright, forgive me for the criticism here - but Brooke isn’t wearing a brassiere? Seems a little impractical, for a tactical specialist.”

“Well… I can’t account for everything,” Brock says, staring dead ahead. “They probably took their shoes off at some point, but nobody wants to read about  _ that _ .”

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” even though every bra-wearer in the room is rolling their eyes. “Anyhow -  _ he kissed all the way down her body, the best kisser she’d ever met, until he got to her waiting pussy, and then -. _ ”

“Ok, please stop,” Maximoff says, gasping. “You have  _ got _ to stop. I’m gonna die.”

“So’s Brooke, by the sound of things,” Hill adds.

“I’ve gotta agree.” Rogers has his arms folded, and his fingers so tight on his biceps that they must be leaving bruises. “It’s not exactly suitable for a work environment.”

“Alright,” Pierce magnanimously holds up a hand. “I’ll censor the more inappropriate of details - but suffice to say, they make love on his enormous bed, and then again in his enormous shower, and then once more on the balcony - also enormous. Brooke’s chest is described variously as ‘voluptuous’, ‘perky’, ‘feminine’, and… ‘cushiony’; Stack is in possession of a manhood that the narrative makes clear is distinctly above average, and hits her in all the right places - although it’s never specified where those are.”

Hill abandons a little of her professional courtesy to make a face.

“We rejoin the lovers the next morning, lying in his enormous bed - and are subject to the revelation that it’s his birthday. The fourth of July.”

In the ensuing silence, the grind of Rogers’ teeth can just about be heard.


	4. Self-Insert

“Jack, you gotta help me.”

“I’ll help you when you’re done punching lockers.”

“ _ Fuck _ you!” And his fist makes a dent with a  _ clang _ . He steps back, huffs out a breath and rocks on his heels, then tightens up again. “Fuck all of you!”

“Uh-huh,” Jack sits on the bench with a wince. He shouldn’t get on the mats with Brock when he’s in this kind of mood, but someone had to stop him going out and doing something stupid. And if that means Jack takes a beating while Brock shouts insults at him as a proxy for everyone else, so be it. It doesn’t mean Jack has to like it, though. “It’s not my fault you made your love interest a clone of Rogers. And your protagonist a clone of yourself.”

“Brooke is not me!” He kicks the bench, making it shudder. “How many fucking times?”

“Uh-huh. Brooke Ludlow.”

“She’s a chick! And she likes stuff I don’t - like, hair products.” Jack raises an eyebrow. “Like,  _ girl _ hair products, smartass. And watching chick movies. And pineapple on pizza. You know I hate pineapple on pizza.”

“Fine - except y’all never mention that in the story.”

Brock snorts and kicks the bench again, not quite as hard. “Ever heard of world-building? Didn’t think so. Fucking amateur.”

“You’re an amateur as well,” a voice from the doorway points out, “until you’re published.”

“You fucking  _ dare _ -.” Brock swings his fist around in blind anger and it’s stopped with a  _ smack _ as if he hit a pad instead of a person.

Rogers has the decency to look a little wary, checking that he’s expended his rage before lowering his hand. He’s fresh from the shower and wearing a towel slung around his hips, and Brock is looking anywhere but his face. It’s a natural reaction.

“I’m just saying,” he says gently, “it’s not the… I mean, it’s not  _ bad _ .”

“Choose your next words carefully,” Jack murmurs at him.

“Sure, it needs some editing, but…” he shrugs, and the towel tries to make an escape. He grabs for it with one hand and his ears go pink. “It could be a good romance novel. That’s all.”

“That’s real sweet of ya, Cap,” and the hair on the back of Jack’s neck stands up, because Rogers has never managed to figure out that Brock’s praise is trash-talk and vice versa. “Since when do you read that shit?”

“The nurse across the hall reads them. And, back in the day - well, books were cheaper back then. My mom, my girl friends,” the space is clearly delineated; Steve Rogers probably got little more than pity dates his whole life, “I mean, not only women. But, you know? They’re still popular, right? P- Ms Carter, um… still has a shelf of ‘em in her room. Says it’s a nice little distraction, and she can read them lotsa times, since she always… forgets the plot….” 

It’s surprising how sad he can look; brave and noble and dejected all at once, even while dressed in a sagging towel. Jack rolls his eyes, because what else is there to do?

Brock folds his arms. “So you think it’ll sell? Interesting.”

“I think it will,” Rogers says quietly, re-tying his towel.

“You wanna be on the cover?” And that makes him go even pinker, from his ears down his neck.

“I did enough of that before…” which they know, because SHIELD kept of all the archives - including the pinups - and it’s not like they haven’t been sharing that stuff around behind his back. “I’m sure there’s some other model who’ll do it….”

“I’ll do it,” Jack says. He waits for Brock to stop laughing and realise that he’s serious; the signal is passed between them like the flash of a lighthouse.

“Really? 

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “How hard can it be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I'm saying is, the 1941 Captain America 'patriotic' calendar is a national treasure that should be preserved for future generations to enjoy.


	5. 50 Shades Of Nope

“‘ _ Aren’t you worried I’m gonna end up pregnant with your baby?’ Brooke knew the baby would be cute as fuck, and they’d be great parents, but she was still worried. It would be hard to be a bodyguard and be pregnant. ‘No,’ he replied, holding her hands romantically, ‘because I know you’re sensible,’  _ which I guess is implying she’s on the pill…”

“Please. Please, Jack, stop….”

“As if you know anything about that shit.  _ ‘I love that you trust me,’ she said,  _ so it’s still better than that fucking 50 Shades thing,  _ and kissed him passionately, like a woman eating a load of noodles _ ….”

“Hey,” Brock says, taking his arm away from his eyes, and his tone is so dark that Jack actually takes notice, “do  _ not _ compare this to that crap. I’m not advocating  _ stalking _ , or signing fucking  _ sex contracts  _ with creepy-ass billionaires who wanna chain you up in their basement.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jack sits down on the couch, shoving Brock’s legs away to do it, and lays the manuscript down. There are quite a few copies, and only Pierce knows where they all are. “And even if you were, you’d do it better.”

“You really think so?”

“Yep. You know more about that shit than that woman does, right? And don’t worry,” he pats Brock on the knee, “one day you’ll get to chain Rogers up in the basement.”

“Fuck you,” Brock says, putting his feet back up across Jack. “And give me that.” He snatches the ream of paper out of Jack’s hand and tosses it to where it can’t be reached.

“You shouldn’t give up, you know. There’s lots of people volunteered to be your editor.”

“Really? You’re kidding me.”

“No, really. Just about everybody who knows about it, actually.”

A sigh. “That means they all think it’s garbage.”

“No. Well, yeah. But they wanna see you improve. Right? And if nothing else… I’ll do it.”

“ _ Now _ you’re kidding me….”


	6. Happy Ending

The station looks like everyone just up and left in the middle of whatever they were doing - which is exactly what happened. They might be law enforcement, but they ran for the doors as fast as anyone else when they realised what was going down, and now there’s a huddle on the pavement outside, and a few armed officers debating whether to approach, and the front half of a truck stuck through their back entrance. (Jack would have liked a joke about that, but Jack isn’t around any more.)

Brock grabs what he’s looking for and heads back through the ruins. A stray bullet pings off his armour. It makes him half-turn, and he’s facing a desk recently vacated by a middle-aged secretary, and on the desk is a coffee cup (in shards), a pack of cookies and a book, slammed down with the well-creased spine bent almost double. He plucks it upwards and stares at the cover.

There’s a man with an unbuttoned shirt, and a woman in a dark suit, holding a gun. The woman is a stock model; he doesn’t know her, as surely as he knows that the man’s eyes should be green, not blue. The author’s name is picked out in gold as ‘Belinda Bloom’, because it’s always middle-aged lady names, some old bint with hair rollers and a sock drawer full of sex toys, to guarantee it’ll sell. It’d be nice to get the credit - as well as the royalties; being on the run is expensive  - but it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, and he no longer has a permanent address, or bank account. He doesn’t miss those things as much as he misses some others.

He shouts “Let’s go!”, making his throat sting (it’s the yelling, not the emotion, he tells himself), and tucks the book under his arm.

 

***

 

The pain’s fairly manageable, but he’s still not keen on moving around too much. A man can only run so far before one or more of his enemies catches up with him; Cap and his bunch of minions aren’t the first, and they won’t be the last, although they’re certainly the most impressive. It’s just a shame he didn’t get a chance to push the button, before the teenage chick hurled him through a building.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying here. They haven’t found him yet, and it’s likely that they’ve got more important things to do - what with the bioweapon being out of his hands, and a few municipal buildings being out of commission. He rolls over, as gracefully as a sack of pumpkins, and stares at a wall instead of a floor. And a pair of boots. Interesting.

“So, your little project got published,” a voice says, a soft drawl that makes normal men run for the hills.

“How the fuck did you survive?” he croaks out, mouth thick with plaster dust.

“Thing is, publishers need an address for their royalty checks. And once you find that address, you’re on your way to finding the person getting paid. _Unless_ that person went on the run, like a fuckin’ idiot. Makes it a lot harder.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“And here was me thinkin’ you’d be fine with that. Start a new life somewhere, adopt a couple cats, get your hair permed. Y’all ever seen that movie with Robin Williams?”

“Fuck you,” he coughs a little. “You know I’ve seen it.”

“Belinda Bloom rides again,” and a boot rolls him over.

“You know,” Brock says, “it’s weird seeing your face from this angle. I got used to the back of your head.”

“So,” Jack says, and smirks at him, “you ready for a sequel?”


End file.
